


ink smudges

by wintersrose616



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Pining, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), letter writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersrose616/pseuds/wintersrose616
Summary: “We should write to one another when you leave,” says Sylvain, trying his hardest to stop the pounding in his chest that happens when he thinks Dedue might sayno.It’s just letters—nothing more, nothingintimate. He’s certain Dedue will be writing Annette and Ashe, maybe even Mercedes,definitelyDimitri. Sylvain might be presuming far too much in asking him to add him to that list. Sylvain, who probably isn't worth the effort of keeping conversation with for longer than a break in their day-to-day workload.Dedue glances over to him. A lone eyebrow raises as he takes in Sylvain’s expression, and the smallest hint of a smile curls his lips up. “I would enjoy writing you, Sylvain.”.After the war, when Dedue decides to set his focus on repairing Duscur, Sylvain thinks of the next best way to keep up communication with him: writing letters.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 28
Kudos: 109





	ink smudges

It starts, as a lot of these things do, with Sylvain’s inability to keep his mouth shut.

It’s not _entirely_ his fault. It’s a defense mechanism, as tried and true as wearing his armour. When things get down, when conversations quietly lull into awkwardness, Sylvain’s mouth becomes his best asset, even _if_ it’s used just to purposely rile the others’ up. He’s never once failed in his task to make Annette crack a smile, even when she’s trying her hardest, cheeks puffed out and lips pressed together to try to quell the threatening curl of her lips, one that breaks with a quick, well-timed waggle of his brows that has her laughter bubbling up. Even Dimitri, after everything, cannot stop the small, exasperated lift of his lips when Sylvain sets his sights on hoisting his mood with words alone. 

Making _Dedue_ smile, though, is a task Sylvain takes each time as a personal challenge, a duty that he must fulfill while they’re in the midst of war.

Conversations with Dedue are easy—Sylvain fills the gaps of silence with his own voice, or just settles alongside Dedue to relish in the peace the quiet of the greenhouse brings. Dedue’s smiles are rare—the most rare out of the army, and each time Sylvain manages to coax one out, his heart stops for a beat, words dying on the tip of his tongue as his thoughts all narrow down to everything he would do to see that smile consistently. 

So, it starts, because Sylvain can’t shut himself up, and his desire to keep Dedue smiling. 

The final battles of war have long since ended by the time Sylvain decides this is the task he wants to do the most, the preparations for Dimitri’s coronation long and arduous. Sylvain spends most of the weeks helping prep by distracting the others when things get to be _too much_. He helps Ingrid in the stables with the pegasi and horses, offers Annie and Mercie his height to collect things off top shelves when they steal away to the kitchens to bake treats. Drags Dimitri away from his desk to play chess late at night when they’re both too awake to try to find sleep. Finds time to help Ashe in the library, which Cornelia hadn’t bothered to keep cleaned in her unwanted residence in the castle. He even spars with Felix a few times when he notices how anxious and frustrated he’s become by all the meetings and paperwork.

It’s the time he spends with Dedue, in the midst of the castle gardens, that he enjoys the most, though. Sylvain’s always cared about his friends, but the time he spends with Dedue is a respite from council work that’s much needed. Sylvain doesn’t need to put on an act with any of his friends—they all see through him now, after knowing him for as long as they all have—but with Dedue, he feels comfortable enough to just be himself without any effort. They’ve all put in a _lot_ of effort, and now they’re back in the midst of trying to act as proper nobility without armour and weapons in hands. He finds his own breaks alongside Dedue, walking through the midst of Fhirdiad’s gardens, helping pitch the plans to the council to put in the effort of repairing the greenhouse, fallen into total disrepair in the battle to take back the castle. 

By the time Dimitri’s coronation comes, Sylvain’s time and efforts have turned to avoiding his father. The Margrave seems fit to leave Sylvain to act in his place on the King’s council, but he still has to show up for the viewing of watching their king get crowned, swearing his fealty, and in the time before the coronation ceremony, Sylvain busies himself with last minute preparations to keep out of his father’s sights. 

The whole ceremony is long, everyone dressed in silken finery they wouldn’t have dreamed of donning six months prior. Byleth crowns Dimitri, standing as Archbishop alongside him on the dais as everyone goes through the fealty swearing after. The evening ends with the party they had painstakingly planned to go overboard with, despite the meager resources they have, just to please the other nobles. 

The noise of the ballroom is a muted roar, the music barely audible of the sounds of chattering. Sylvain spends his time passing himself between his friends for dances, keeping his eyes away from the southeast corner of the room where he knows his father is. He’s three wine glasses deep when he finds Dedue, standing like a guard in the shadows of a column, eyes tracking Dimitri from where he’s twirling around the dance floor with Annette in his arms. 

The finery he wears is enough to make Sylvain’s breath catch in his throat. He had seen Dedue earlier, but seeing him in the warm glow of the lanterns and candles lighting the ballroom is something else entirely. He’s dressed in the dark teals, silver embroidery catching in the light like starlight. Sylvain doesn’t want to look away, but he realizes steadily that he’s in the midst of the celebration with an empty glass of wine in his hand, staring like he’s just discovered how handsome Dedue is. He’d have to have been blinded before the war to think of Dedue as anything _but_ handsome, he knows, but still seeing him dressed as he is is something Sylvain isn’t afraid to admit he’d care to see more often.

Sylvain grabs a fresh glass of wine and makes his way over, nodding his greetings to a batch of the former Alliance nobles who had made the trek north for the ceremony. Hilda gives him a bright smile from where she stands next to her brother, though the curl of her lips is decidedly _mischievous_ and Sylvain almost goes off track to figure out whatever scheme she’s brought on Claude’s behalf.

Almost.

His eyes slide back towards Dedue and with one last small wave towards the others he finishes his path.

“Dedue,” he drawls, in lieu of a greeting. He proffers the wine glass when Dedue looks over at him. “You look like you could use this.”

Dedue quirks a brow, unfolding his hands from behind his back to accept the glass. “Thank you.” His eyes skirt over him, and Sylvain wants to blame the rush of heat to his face on the alcohol he’s already consumed. “You look well in these.” His free hand lifts, as if he’s going to touch Sylvain’s elbow, where the silken splendor of House Gautier has bunched, and he watches intently as he appears to change his mind, fingers curling back into his palm before they can trace the fabric.

Sylvain tries not to feel disappointed when he drops his hand, fixing a smile on his face as he glances over him, eyes trailing along the embroidery he’s certain was stitched with Mercedes’ loving hands. “I’m not nearly as handsome as you,” he tells him, winking when Dedue startles and looks up to his face.

Sylvain watches the dusky hue of a blush colour his face while Dedue looks away, lifting the wine glass to take a sip before murmuring a tense, embarrassed, “ _Thank you_.”

Sylvain grins, leaning close to bump him gently with his shoulder. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks it.”

Dedue huffs, flustering. “You are the only one who would _say_ it,” he states.

Sylvain lifts a brow. “Then I’ll just have to tell you constantly tonight. Have I mentioned how handsome you look?” 

_“Sylvain_.” Exasperation rolls his eyes, but Sylvain spots the tiny curl of his lips, a smile he won’t let fully form. “Enough, _please_.”

“Aww, only after two?” Dedue levels him with a look and Sylvain laughs. “Alright, alright, only because you asked me so _nicely_.”

Dedue’s eyes flit back to the dance floor. Sylvain follows his gaze. Dimitri’s stepped off to the side and Sylvain feels his face twist when he sees who he’s talking with. He rolls his eyes, heaving a sigh as the Margrave leans closer, his scowl fierce.

“Ugh,” he groans. “Whatever he’s telling Dima is absolute garbage.” 

Dedue chuckles softly. “Have you spoken to him at all?”

“Not since his arrival yesterday,” Sylvain states, lip lifted in a partial sneer. He wishes he had another glass of wine, but shoves the desire down with a sigh. “He’ll be leaving in a few more days, so I’ve just got to stay away from him ‘till then.”

Dedue hums. “Do you think you’ll stay here, then?”

“That’s my plan so far,” Sylvain says. “I’m on the King’s council, so my father can’t exactly require me to return to Gautier yet. I’m sure he’ll beleaguer me with marriage plans, but we’ve got a nation to rebuild, so he shouldn’t harp on it too much.”

Another hum. Dedue takes another drink before he speaks again. “I have been speaking with Dimitri about my own plan.”

Sylvain blinks, startled. He looks over, feeling his brows furrow. “Your own plan?”

Dedue nods, slowly. Sylvain’s spent enough time with him to note the way he’s carefully thinking over his words, trying to piece together what would be best to say. Sylvain lets him as his own mind starts racing. He had just assumed Dedue would stay, too, as part of the King’s court. He knew Mercedes was trying to help rebuild an orphanage in the city, and the only one who had any plans to go far was Ingrid, who wished to visit Derdriu with Hilda and Lady Judith for a brief reprieve before returning for her knighthood. 

“Since Kleiman is no longer within the borders,” Dedue starts, Sylvain’s attention snapping back to him, “I have decided to return to Duscur to start properly rehabilitating the lands. I have heard what Kleiman did during his time there—there is much to fix.”

Sylvain’s mouth goes dry, his fingers curling slightly against his thigh. He exhales slowly. Of course. _Of course_. Dedue would never be selfish enough to rest before their work was all done. Sylvain should have known better. 

“I see,” he drawls. He tries to keep his voice steady, but whatever hitch Dedue hears in it has him looking over. “Kleiman was a piece of work,” he continues, voice coming easier when he falls back on a familiar subject of discussing corrupt nobles. “I’m sure there’s a lot to be done there.”

Dedue nods, still looking at him. Sylvain glances away—Felix has been coerced onto the floor with Mercedes, who looks absolutely delighted at the face Felix is making as they dance. He doesn’t drag his eyes away from them, scared to see if his father is still with Dimitri. He reaches out when a server comes by with a tray, their steps pausing to proffer a wine glass to him, and he mutters a soft _thanks_ as he drains half the glass in one sip.

Dedue is still watching him.

“We should write to one another when you leave,” says Sylvain, trying his hardest to stop the pounding in his chest that happens when he thinks Dedue might say _no_. 

It’s just letters—nothing more, nothing _intimate_. He’s certain Dedue will be writing Annette and Ashe, maybe even Mercedes, _definitely_ Dimitri. Sylvain might be presuming far too much in asking him to add him to that list. Sylvain, who probably isn't worth the effort of keeping conversation with for longer than a break in their day-to-day workload.

Sylvain, with his inability to keep his mouth shut, has shoved his foot right into it. He starts to backtrack, lifting his free hand to the back of his neck as he brings his wine glass up with the intent to drain the rest in one go as he laughs, nerves bolstering the sound, lips already parting to tell Dedue _never mind_. 

“Alright.”

Sylvain blinks, startled, wine glass still half raised. He looks to Dedue, who’s turned his gaze away from him, eyes straight ahead, watching the dancers as they twirl along the floor. 

_“What_?”

Dedue glances over to him. A lone eyebrow raises as he takes in Sylvain’s expression, and the smallest hint of a smile curls his lips up. “I would enjoy writing you, Sylvain.”

Sylvain tilts his head, brows furrowing. He doesn’t have time to question that, to tell Dedue that’s probably a terrible decision, for Annette shouts Dedue’s name and he looks away from Sylvain to watch her approach. She appears in a rustle of silken skirts, adorned with jewelry that jangles as she hurries to them, hands cupping pastries as if they’re the most delicate thing she’s ever held.

“Dedue, you _have_ to try this!” she insists. “You, too, Sylvain! They’re made with fruit from _Almyra_.”

Sylvain blinks away his confusion that Dedue might actually enjoy talking to him as Annette shoves a flaky pastry in his hands. He brings it up to sniff at it, smelling tartness under the sweet scent of sugar and warm smell of butter from the crust. “Where did we get Almyran fruit?” 

Annette shrugs one shoulder, biting into her own treat. After she’s finished her mouthful, she declares, “Lady Judith brought them with her when she arrived this morning. She says they’re presents from Claude for Dimitri’s coronation!” 

“Why would Claude send _Almyran_ fruit?” he asks, baffled, but Annette rolls her eyes.

“Just try it! You’ll love it!” 

She waits until they’ve both taken bites in the pastry. Sylvain has to admit that it’s better than he anticipated, the small red seeds of the fruit bursting across his tongue when he bites into the pastry. Dedue’s got more of the proper words for it, talking with Annette about taste and the flake of the crust as Sylvain tries to get his mind to stop narrowing in on _I would enjoy writing you_. Annette leaves once her pastry is finished, the skirts that poof around her waist flowing like water with the movement as she declares she’s going to hunt down Ashe to taste some more.

Sylvain’s brushing crumbs off his palm when Dedue tilts his head toward him. “I will not be leaving for at least another two weeks. I would be more than happy to write once I am settled, though.”

Sylvain looks to him, smiling despite the nerves alighting in his veins. “That sounds great.”

**.**

There is little fanfare when Dedue takes his leave from the capital. There had been more of a gathering when Ingrid had left for Derdriu after the coronation, but Dedue slips away with only a small group alongside him through the west gates in the early morning with Dimitri, Felix, and Sylvain standing as witnesses. 

There is even less fanfare in the letter Sylvain receives, written alongside Dedue’s first report to Dimitri. He’s certain it’s a length that Felix would approve of—no extra prose or dramatically detailed stories. Just a simple two paragraphs telling him of the ride to where he’s staying and what he’s witnessed so far of what’s been left of Duscur.

Sylvain sends him something far more wordy, wondering if Dedue will see the paragraphs he writes and immediately regret their agreement. He writes and rewrites multiple drafts, the final one leaving his thumbs smudged with ink as he finishes with a flourished signature he’s certain is over the top enough to bring a smile to Dedue’s face. 

He writes of Annette and her work with the Royal Academy of Sorcery, tells Dedue of Mercedes’ work at the orphanage. He writes about finding Felix and Dimitri in a definite _not_ spar one night when he was walking by the training grounds on his way back to his chambers from the library, and of Ingrid’s return to the capital looking far too tanned from just a month away in Derdriu.

Dedue’s only been gone three months when Sylvain receives the second letter. 

He hasn’t put much thought into anything besides council work and the research he’s been doing on the side that he’s still too skittish to tell the others about. The first of the Garland Moon catches him off guard. He knows his birthday doesn’t matter too much in the grand scheme of it all—though he does feel slightly bitter at the thought that this is his first birthday in five years that wouldn’t be in the midst of a war, and the person he desperately wants to be there is leagues away. 

It’s the second day of the Garland Moon when the letters arrive. 

He’s sitting across from Dimitri at a chess board, eyes already tracking Dimitri’s thought process from where the King is sitting slightly hunched, chin in his hand as his eye roams over the board. Felix sits a few paces away on the hearthrug, Dimitri’s discarded cloak about his shoulders as he works a whetstone over his blade, the sound of scraping metal the only other noise besides the fire from where it roars in the hearth. 

It’s late, later than any of them had anticipated being awake for. Sylvain had spent an hour tossing and turning in bed when Dimitri had knocked on his door, asking if he might join him and Felix in the study for a bit, both too anxious to sleep, too. _A bit_ had turned into a few hours, where the cold spring breeze outside had turned into shrill wind that sent shivers through the castle and the fire in the hearth was a necessity. 

It’s late enough that none of them are expecting the three knocks that land on the study door. 

All three of them look over towards it, but it’s Felix who rises, scowl fierce as he mutters about no one respecting Dimitri enough to let him have his rest. Sylvain reaches a hand out as he crosses by him, easily plucking the cloak from his shoulders, simply quirking a brow when Felix’s cheeks flame with a blush and he scowls before all but stomping to the door. Sylvain hands the cloak over the board to Dimitri, whose smiling a tiny, slightly embarrassed smile as he murmurs a _thank you._

A messenger is the poor soul who receives Felix’s unmitigated, unreasonable anger. “From Duscur, Your Grace, for His Majesty and Lord Gautier.”

Felix gives them a grumpy thanks as Dimitri perks up. Their chess game goes abandoned as Sylvain turns his attention to the door and sees Felix holding letters—and a small package. Felix’s eyes are narrowed on the small box, twisting it in his hand. He makes a soft triumphant noise as he reaches the table, proffering Sylvain the box and one of the letters, giving the other to Dimitri in exchange for the cloak.

Dedue’s hand has written his full name across both the letter, and the package, and Sylvain leaves the box on his lap to break the seal, curiosity already kicking in as to what he could’ve possibly sent. The letter is far longer than he anticipated as he slips the parchment out, unfolding the _pages_ that are inside. He feels Dimitri’s curious stare on him as he starts with the first page, eyes skimming the words briefly.

Dedue’s sent him a birthday present. 

The letter tells him the contents of the box, small jars of spices cultivated in Duscur. The other pages are recipes, simply written in the style Dedue knows Sylvain will take to based on their joint efforts in the kitchen back at the monastery in their school days, and during the war when they tried to make the most out of war rations. Sylvain flits through the other pages, mind already racing on if he wants to be selfish and keep these to himself, or if he’ll enlist Annette and Ashe into helping. 

“Did Dedue send you a present?” Dimitri asks, his hands still holding his sealed letter. 

Sylvain nods, grabbing the edge of the paper wrapped box to tear it open. He pulls out the small jars of herbs and spices, recognizing _none_ in the five jars. There’s a bright red powder, alongside one that’s orange-y yellow and a few full of tiny seeds. He opens one of them to sniff cautiously, feeling his nose scrunch at the sharp scent inside.

“Smells spicy,” he says at Felix and Dimitri’s curious looks, passing the jar over for them to sniff. Dimitri’s own nose crinkles but Felix looks at it in intrigue as Sylvain reads over the letters. “That one’s ground chilies, so it is _definitely_ spicy.”

“He sent you recipes?” Felix asks. 

Sylvain nods, feeling something blooming out from his chest as he reads over the brief message wishing him a happy birthday. Dedue’s words flow in a stilted way that’s familiar enough to Sylvain from their voiced conversations, but he feels nothing but pure warmth at the _I am sorry to be away for it_ that follows the well wish. 

“I—I think I’m going to call it a night,” he says, as Felix carefully puts the lid back on the jar to hand it back. “I’ll see you guys in the morning.” 

“Rest well, Sylvain,” Dimitri says, as he gathers everything up.

When he makes it back to his chambers, he leaves the jars on his dressing table and lights one of the candles on his night table to read through the letter a few more times. Sylvain falls asleep with the parchment gripped in loose fingers, dreaming of Dedue sitting in low candlelight to write down everything just for him.

**.**

The spices last two months. 

Ashe and Annette are thrilled when Sylvain shows them the jars, showing them off with an odd sense of pride, as if _he_ had collected them all himself. The meals they’re used in are strictly kept to their small group of friends. More often than not, Felix goes out into the city to fetch Mercedes from the orphanage so she can have dinner with them. The taste of the meals Dedue had sent recipes for are indescribable, something he had never dreamed of having after growing up on Faerghus meals. Dimitri comments that the aroma of the dishes is something he’ll never grow tired of, tension easing out of his shoulders whenever they sit together in the small dining room reserved for the King’s personal guests. 

Two months, and two letters between him and Dedue.

The wait time is absolute agony to Sylvain, but he knows no amount of coin could get a messenger to move faster, especially when they’re branching out into unfamiliar territory. Besides, Dedue’s _busy_ , his work important. Sylvain tries to keep himself busy to distract. There’s no shortage of work in the capital, and he’s decided to take on extra in his little side research project, which amounts to long nights, and even earlier mornings. 

It’s why late one night, he wakes up in the library, arched over one of the tables with his glasses pressing painfully into the bridge of his nose. He takes a while to figure out what woke him, blinking slowly in the low candlelight and groaning as he feels the pain twinging in his neck from how he’s hunched. 

A soft snort to his left makes him push up on his forearms, Felix is leaning back against the table, arms crossed over his chest, looking down at him with amusement dancing in eyes lit orange from the flame of the candle. He looks like he’s come straight from the training grounds—and Sylvain realizes he must have as he sits up full, taking his glasses off to rub at his sore spot.

“You’re getting old,” Felix quips lightly. “Your back’s going to ache if you keep falling asleep like this.”

Sylvain lets out a soft laugh that ends with a groan as he stretches his arms over his head. “Can’t believe you don’t think my back already hurts, Felix,” he says. “Take pity on me.”

Felix hums, pushing a hand up to brush back his loose bangs. “I saw the light when I was walking by,” he says. “Wanted to see who was in here and saw you drooling all over your paperwork.”

A minute jolt of fear spasms down Sylvain’s spine as he looks down at the papers scattered over the table. The papers are fine, not a singular smudge of ink across them. The relief he feels at seeing Felix was just teasing him about drooling in his sleep is cut short by a yawn that works its way up his throat.

“I’m almost done with this,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face and pushing them through his hair. “I wanted to have the proposal ready for the council next week.”

Felix’s brows pinch and he turns, leaning his side against the table. He cranes his neck to peer down at Sylvain’s notes and papers. “What proposal?” 

Sylvain stops short with his hands on the back of his neck, fingers stopping the movement of trying to massage the ache away. Heat rushes up to his face as he realizes what he’s just blurted out. 

“It’s—ah. It’s nothing.”

He’s been working for nearly half a year on the proposal, doing in depth research on customs and histories that he’s certain Faerghus would like to forget. He hasn’t told any of the others—it’s something he feels he _must_ do, righting the wrong that his father helped create, the wrong that the lance he wields caused. 

Since his lie doesn’t land—and Felix wouldn’t have believed him anyway, if it had—Felix ignores him and grabs the top piece of parchment. It’s Sylvain’s half-written speech, one he’s been writing and rewriting since he started this whole project. Words have always come easy to him, knowing just what to say to get what he wants without others thinking he’s putting too much effort. He wanted this to seem nonchalant, an issue that _had_ to be fixed because it was just common sense. He didn’t want anyone on the council thinking he had spent countless nights slaving away over old tomes and texts in a language he had had to send to Linhardt at the monastery to translate for him. 

Truthfully, the effort’s been put in to convince the council more than Dimitri. He knows Dimitri will agree whole-heartedly to it, but without the extra support, it would end with more discontent amongst the other nobility. 

Sylvain watches as Felix’s eyes flick over the words, brows furrowing more and more the farther he gets, lips pressed together in a thin line. His eyes dart up over the paper’s edge, spot Sylvain watching, and drop back to the words. He lifts the paper to hide his frown, but Sylvain can still feel it burning through the paper.

Reconciling with Sreng is the least of Felix’s priorities, despite it being at the top of Sylvain’s list. He doesn’t want to end up passing on the LAnce of Ruin for more battles because of what his father participated in to carve out the border between their nations. If he had his way, the Lance would stay right where it was—locked in the best guarded armory that Fhirdiad’s castle offered. 

Peace with Sreng is what Sylvain knows is _needed._ But he also knows that most of the council’s focus is within Fódlan, rebuilding what five years of war ravaged.

Felix makes a soft noise after a moment. “You think it’s smart to do this _now?_ ” 

“I think it’s going to take a long time to do a lot of what we need to,” Sylvain says, scrubbing his hands over his face again. Everything aches. He’s really too old to be falling asleep over a table like this. “I need to get everything together to plant the idea within the council’s heads. Sreng _has_ things we could use to help revitalize trading. Furs and—y’know. Things.” Sylvain lifts his hand, waving as he tries to list things off.

“Things,” Felix echoes, unimpressed. 

“It’s too late for me to be completely coherent, Fe.”

Felix’s eyes flick in a roll and he shoves the paper back at him. “Then get to sleep—in your bed.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” He pushes the chair out and tries to stand, groaning with every joint that cracks and settles back into place. “I _am_ too old for this shit.”

“You’re twenty-seven,” Felix states, exasperated. He stays to help Sylvain tidy up, putting the books back on the shelves as Sylvain gathers all his papers.

“I’m _old_ ,” he whines, trying to keep a pout on his lips as Felix growls at him. The smile breaks through anyway, even _if_ his neck feels like it’s never going to feel normal again. “You said so yourself!” 

“Fine, you’re old,” he relents, voice terse. “So you’ll be joining me for a spar tomorrow to keep your limbs flexible.”

“Oh, Felix, what? Absolutely _not_ —”

“Yes. We’ll work on what you’re going to tell the council, too. It’ll be fine.” 

_“Felix_ —”

“Don’t whine,” he orders. “And wipe your face—you have an ink smudge on your cheek.”

Sylvain puffs his cheeks out in a pout befitting one of Annette’s, but smears the back of his hand across his face to clean it anyway.

**.**

It goes more than fine. Everything does. 

The council is surprisingly receptive to the idea of border negotiations with Sreng, and the messengers that return from the north come with good news about the Srengi agreeing to meet with him. 

The only issue is that, as the forefront of the proposal, Sylvain has to go as the King’s personal diplomat. He doesn’t _truly_ mind—it’s just that he learns very quickly in his half year stint in the north that sending letters to _Dimitri_ is an ordeal, and sending them beyond the capital to Duscur is near impossible. The distance makes messengers less welcoming to the idea than they are to returning to Fhirdiad and to the King. 

Sylvain receives Dedue’s letter at the end of his third month, where fall has turned to winter in a blistering cold way that he had never thought possible. Winters in Gauiter were always bad, but in Sreng, he has a feeling the only way he’s going to feel warm again is if he goes straight back to Ailell when he returns to Fódlan. 

Dedue writes reassurances Sylvain knows he shouldn’t take as rejection, but the bitter feeling blooms within his ribs regardless as he reads and rereads that Dedue doesn’t need Sylvain to go _out of his way_ to write when there are more important things at his hand.

Sylvain would like to think talking with Dedue, even in letter form, is something he finds important, but he tucks the letter within his trunk of belongings and tries to make it through negotiations. 

He spends six entire months in Sreng, enduring the worst winter he’s ever lived through, and he returns to Fhirdiad with little fanfare, skirting around the estate when he crosses through Gautier territory so he won’t have to deal with his father. Upon his return to the castle, the only ones waiting to greet him are Felix and Dimitri, though he hadn’t expected more. He’s barely dismounted when Felix skips greetings and goes straight to questions.

"What the hell happened to your face?"

Sylvain beams, ignoring his question to wrap Felix in his arms, laughing when he squirms and tries to protest. He releases him after he gets a well-aimed, half-punch to his shoulder, more akin to a cat batting at him than anything else, grinning at the indignation colouring his face as Felix scowls up at him once his feet are back on the ground. He lifts a hand trailing his fingers along his jaw. His beard’s not nearly as thick as it had been before he left Sreng, but trying to shave the entire thing off with only a small mirror had seemed like a poor choice, so he had left a portion of it behind.

"I know you had to deal with what your father considered facial hair, but this is what a beard looks like, Fe.”

Dimitri chuckles at that while Felix huffs. 

“You look ridiculous,” he states. 

“It was necessary that far north!” Sylvain protests. “I thought my face would freeze."

Felix’s eyes roll, his muttering of _overdramatic_ going ignored as Dimitri opens his arms and Sylvain squeezes him in a tight hug. 

“Welcome home, my friend,” he greets, smiling warmly. “I think the beard looks nice.”

“I’m going to shave it off,” Sylvain says, smile turning into a grin at the relief that flashes through Dimitri’s gaze.

“Ah, are you?” 

He rolls his eyes at Dimitri’s attempt to cover up his joy, the smile on his face feeling like a semi-permanent feature now that he’s back in Fhirdiad. Now that he’s _home_. He doubts his father would be thrilled to hear he considers the castle home more than the territory, but he follows dutifully through the halls as Dimitri and Felix update him on what’s all transpired in half a year away.

Annette’s lessons have made her famous amongst young mages in the city, her reputation for being cheerful and powerful going throughout Fódlan like wildfire. Ashe has taken on training most of the castle guards, and Ingrid’s taken her duty as one of the King’s personal knights seriously enough that she’s written to her father to renounce the Galatea title. Mercie’s orphanage is renowned throughout the city as having the most devout caretakers amongst their staff. 

While he is more than happy to hear about the others, his nerves thrum with the thought of one Dimitri has yet to mention. They’ve just crossed the threshold to the castle proper when Dimitri looks at him, a small, sheepish smile gracing his lips for a brief moment before he clears his throat.

“Dedue’s work in Duscur is going well,” he says, but his tone is _off_ , and makes Sylvain narrow his eyes. Dimitri flushes bright red when he spots the look and he clears his throat as he hastily looks away. “He left the castle to return two days ago.”

_Left the castle_. Sylvain almost stumbles in his steps, the heartache that wracks him at that admittance almost leaving him breathless. Dedue was _here_. He had been there, when Sylvain was away. He does his best to mask the feeling lacing through him, making a soft, contemplative noise as he thinks about how if he had been two days earlier, he would’ve seen Dedue. If he had moved faster, he would’ve been able to see him again.

It pains him, how long they’ve been apart, which Sylvain knows he has no right to feel. Dedue is working tirelessly to repair damages that Faerghus is responsible for. The selfish desire to see Dedue should make him feel disgusted—Sylvain had no rights to demand any extra time from him.

He tries to mask how the news makes him feel, but by the way both Dimitri and Felix stare at him, he’s not doing a great job. He’s already tired from travelling, he has no extra energy in trying to keep his spirits lifted. 

“He did leave some things for you, though!” Dimitri tells him, earnestly smiling, though the expression is brittle at best.

Sylvain blinks at him. “What?”

“Dedue left you some things,” Felix explains, tone mixed between boredom and irritation.

Dimitri nods. “We had them left in your chambers.” 

“Some ‘ _things_?’” questions Sylvain. 

“A letter and what we’re assuming is more spices, based on the box size,” says Felix. “We didn’t open it.” 

“I see.” 

The rest of the trek goes quickly. Dimitri and Felix aren’t subtle in corralling him towards the dining room for food. They talk over an early dinner, Dimitri insisting the others would all gather at the castle tomorrow evening to give him a proper welcome. Sylvain talks of Sreng after he gets updates on all of the others, explaining their warriors and customs that differ from Faerghus, the similarities between the two nations that his father would hate to learn. He had even taken to sparring as a way to communicate outside of flowery words and terse negotiations, which delights Felix to hear. 

He leaves them shortly after, making the walk to his chambers by himself after getting two more hugs from both of them—though Felix still manages to look put upon during their brief one. He spots the letter and small, wrapped box atop his dressing table, next to where his trunk and bags from Sreng had been brought in by servants. 

Sylvain leaves them for the time being, taking his time to unpack, trying to stamp his nerves down over what Dedue could have possibly written or left. He doesn’t want to get his hopes _too_ high. After he’s put his clothes away he draws a bath, and while the water’s filling, he dares to touch the letter, just to look at the way his name looks in Dedue’s handwriting. 

It’s only after he’s dressed in his night clothes and has a small fire going in the hearth that he brings himself to grab both gifts and settles on the bed. His thumb easily breaks the seal of the letter and he unfurls the paper, eyes immediately going to the greeting where _Dear Sylvain_ awaits him.

He wasn’t truly expecting anything more than another update on Duscur, or a recipe he’s perfected. What first awaits him, though, is an unneeded apology at having to leave before Sylvain’s return. Sylvain knows well how precarious the times are—Dedue couldn’t afford to be away from Duscur for that long. Sylvain’s thankful for it, deep down. If Dedue was only able to stay a day in the capital when he returned, he’s not sure he’d be able to keep it together upon having to say goodbye again.

The update of his work comes afterwards, a shortly detailed explanation on farmlands and villages. 

_The work in Duscur is coming along well. The villages no longer live in fear of retaliation due to His Majesty's efforts_ , Dedue writes. Sylvain lets out a low chuckle at that, fingers tracing over Dedue's familiar script. 

"They're coming along because of _your_ efforts," he whispers to the parchment, fondness filling his chest. Dedue's letter continues, brief but enough to keep him feeling warm. 

It's the last line before his signature that catches Sylvain off guard.

_I do not remember if I mentioned it in prior letters, but righting the wrong of your own father is a brave choice. I am very proud of the work you're doing in Sreng._

_Ah, fuck_. His chest tightens almost painfully as he rereads the words. The others had all told him basically the same thing upon his return to the castle, but with Dedue it's different. It's so much more and Sylvain won’t let himself fully explain why.

He knows, deep down, why, but he refuses to let that thought form. It does anyway, despite his best efforts, as his eyes go over the written words. Like driftwood, slowly surfacing in the grey waters of the northern ocean, inevitably washing onto the shore. 

He knows that it won’t be the same for Dedue; knows that it would be nearly impossible to love Sylvain as much as he feels for Dedue. Even still, the feeling in his chest threatens to burst, tightening his lungs and throat as if just the thought of what _could_ be robs him of breath.

He's only been back in Fhirdiad for half a day. There's so much he needs to go over with Dimitri on the progress in Sreng, but what if. . . He bites down harshly on his lip, carefully folding Dedue's letter up. He still has a small chest, nestled in one of his desk drawers, where the other letters are, bundled with twine. He adds it atop before going to the box, opening it to see what Dedue had left for him.

The jars that are nestled within aren’t spices. Sylvain can see that instantly. There’s two jars of tea and he laughs softly when he smells the first. Bergamot. It’s been months since he’s been able to have it. He had told Dedue as such in a letter—his favourite tea wasn’t easily accessed in Sreng. 

He leaves the tea in the box, taking stock of what plan he’s attempting to form.

It's late. 

Sylvain had retired early with the excuse of being saddle sore—which wasn’t a full lie, but the restless feeling is bubbling up in his veins, telling him he needs to act and act _now._ He strips and dresses in more appropriate clothes to be waltzing through the castle in, glancing over himself in the mirror. He squints at the beard on his face, trailing fingers over it as he inspects. He doesn’t look _awful_ with it, but he definitely doesn’t look like himself. He wonders how Dedue might react if he saw him with it, but shoves that thought down as he shoves his feet into his boots and hurries out the door.

The castle’s preparing for bed, sconces lit with low flames that send firelight dancing across the carpets. Hardly any servants are about, and the few guards he passes are just starting their watch. The corridors of the castle are familiar even after being away for so long, and he knows exactly where to go.

It’s late, but not late _enough_ that Dimitri would be retired for the evening. Sylvain knows he has two options on where to find him: his study, or the eastern training yard. Even if he’s wrong, Sylvain knows he’ll be able to find at least someone in the training yard, making his way towards it first.

There are multiple lanterns lit within the training grounds when Sylvain pushes the doors open. He was right in it not being empty, though he startles the two occupants with his sudden appearance. 

He finds Dimitri alongside Felix, both red-faced with their shirt collars loosened to showcase the matching collars of bruises that, if his mind wasn't racing, he'd tease them about. Their weapons have long since been discarded, and Sylvain barely notes how they’re pushed up against one of the columns as he thinks over what he’s going to say. He manages to find his words before Dimitri and Felix can recover over being caught, before Dimitri can start stammering and Felix can challenge Sylvain to a spar to fight off the embarrassment filling his expression when he pushes Dimitri off of him.

He plans to act with decorum, drop the questions delicately, but he’s truly exhausted, his mind racing faster than his body needs it to, so without an ounce of tact, he blurts:

"Dimitri, how long do you need me here in the capital?"

Dimitri blinks, startled out of his flustered state by the sudden question. "What?"

Sylvain doesn't have time to deal with circular conversations; he wants a yes or no answer, a timeframe. "Do you need me here long?"

"I, ah—." Dimitri's brow furrows in confusion and he glances at his side to Felix.

Felix, whose own brows are furrowed while his hands are busy trying to fix the ponytail Sylvain assumes Dimitri had pawed the tie out of. "Where do you want to go so soon?"

His mouth opens, the word _Duscur_ on the tip of his tongue, but he stops short. Admitting it aloud seems too much, too soon. "I just need to know," he says, voice shaking just slightly. He clears his throat. "I need to know if I, say, wanted to leave tomorrow, if you'd let me."

"We—. We do have much to discuss, but you are not a _prisoner_ here, Sylvain," Dimitri says, brow still furrowed, head tilting in his confusion. "If you desire to leave, I will not stop you."

At his side, there's a scoff, and his eyes go to Felix.

"Sylvain." Felix's eyes are narrowed, copper burning into whatever's left of Sylvain's soul as he crosses his arms. "You are not running off to Duscur a day after returning from Sreng."

Heat bursts across his face as Dimitri makes a small noise of understanding, eye lighting up. Sylvain splutters for a bit, trying, and failing, to keep his face neutral.

"Who said anything about Duscur?" he asks.

Felix raises a brow, head cocking. "So, you're planning to rush back to Gautier? Which you distinctly avoided on your way back from Sreng?"

Sylvain's mouth opens, closes. "Derdriu—" he manages, voice hitching. "I could want to go to Derdriu. It's probably warmer there, yeah?"

"Right," Felix drawls. "Like this doesn't have anything to do with the letter Dedue left you?"

"Felix." Dimitri's voice is a staged whisper, teasing full within it.

Embarrassment floods through him, but he shifts his weight, feeling his lips turn down in a frown. "Hey, at least I have the decency and decorum to not make out in a public training yard with the _King_."

He watches as twin blushes burst across their faces, red burning crimson along their cheeks to their ears and down their necks. Sylvain feels his shoulders relax ever so slightly as he gathers the dregs of his dignity at having the upper hand in this conversation again.

“Anyway,” he says, before Felix’s embarrassment could lead to furious words, “so _what_ if I want to go—,” _see Dedue_ , his mind supplies, but he catches himself and forces, “—to Duscur? If Dedue’s work is going so well, it’s worth visiting, isn’t it? You haven’t been able to take any tours out yet, so might as well let the future Margrave, right?” 

Sylvain’s speaking too much, but it’s what he does best. He knows Dimitri would let him go regardless of any of his half-formed excuses. Still, he wants to at least have plausible deniability if this plan of his, barely formed and rushed, fails before it can be enacted.

“I suppose that _would_ look good, in the eyes of the common folk,” Dimitri says, his words slow, carefully chosen. “But you’ve just returned from a long journey.”

“You need to _rest_ first,” states Felix, crossing his arms. “It won’t do to have you depleting our resources because you’re desperate to leave Fhirdiad again.”

“It’s not that—,” he starts, but Felix speaks over him.

“Give it at least a week, Sylvain.”

“Yes!” Dimitri exclaims. “A week. It will be enough for you to update us and the council fully, and prepare for the next trip out.”

His lips part, but between Dimitri’s brilliantly earnest blue eye and Felix’s narrowed amber ones, his words catch in his throat. He manages to keep quiet, nodding.

“Fine,” he relents. “A week.”

**.**

The journey is long from Fhidiad to the small village Dedue’s claimed as a sort of base of operations. Sylvain knows he would balk at it being described as such, but he can’t help but think of it as anything else. He travels lightly on his own, traversing newly reclaimed roads that Kleiman had let fall into disrepair in the past decade of his reign. 

Sylvain leaves the Lance of Ruin safely locked up besides Areadbhar in the castle's armory. He isn't trying to conceal his identity, but thought a member of the Faerghan Court waltzing into newly freed territory with a weapon like that would be frowned upon even in peace. He's not completely unarmed—there are still bandits and thieves aplenty—but the silver lance he carries is nowhere near as threatening as the wriggling, boney weapon he had wielded for five long, bloody years. 

He had left the castle with little pomp, the only ones saying goodbye Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid as he slipped through the castle gates just after dawn. He had sent a letter before he had left Fhirdiad, paying the pegasus rider extra coin to make sure it got there before Sylvain did. He just hopes Dedue hadn’t sent one back for him, one that he is certain will be tossed haphazardly on his wardrobe by Felix and left to collect dust while he’s away.

His mare is steady with him as they travel, Chastity far too used to him to be deterred by unfamiliar territory. When they slip beyond the mountain roads to enter Duscur, his horse seems content to follow a lazy pace, despite Sylvain wanting nothing more than to push her to move faster. 

When the village appears on the horizon, Sylvain feels both lightweight and nervous all at once. He didn't tell Dedue he was coming, wanting it to be a surprise that he hopes is well received. 

The village rests in a valley, nestled between rolling plains of farmlands and a meadow of flowers Sylvain had only heard of, painstakingly described by Dedue in the monastery’s greenhouse when they were in the midst of the war. Most of the buildings look freshly built, cabins and places looking like they were the start of a proper town. There are more people than he expected out, and Sylvain dismounts when he reaches the first building, nodding to the two women who stand under the eaves and look more than happy to gossip about what someone like Sylvain is doing here. 

He finds Dedue three steps later. The buildings are all spread out enough that Sylvain has a clear view of the meadows between them. 

He doesn’t know what compels him. Be it the soft, orange rays of sunset tinting Dedue’s starlight hair in warm apricot, or the look on his face when he spots Sylvain—eyes wide in first shock, then the joy that crinkles the edges of gentle jade. He moves without his mind’s permission, feet taking first one steady step, before his legs urge him forward. His arms outstretch, and Dedue looks ready to receive a hug, his hands lifting, but Sylvain is _selfish_ and he reaches up, higher, crashing against Dedue’s chest as he moves his arms around his neck. The fingers of one hand brush against the short, sheared hairs at Dedue’s nape while the others reach move up, tangling around the tie in his hair to bring his face down, _down_ as Sylvain stretches up on his tiptoes.

Dedue makes a soft noise of surprise. Sylvain feels cold at the thought of it, his lips still pressed against Dedue’s own, but as soon as he moves his hands, readying to step back and apologize, Dedue’s hands land on his waist, tightening against his hips and holding him steady as Dedue kisses him fiercely, like a man starved. Sylvain feels months upon months, perhaps even _years_ of longing come crashing down around him like a dam that’s burst. He keeps his hands gentle, but firm against Dedue’s jaw, guiding him closer and a thought in the back of his mind sounding far too much like Seteth tells him they are definitely _in public_ , as if the thought of one of their former professor would sway him away from from the tender and care Dedue presses into every slick meeting of their lips. Their kisses, which are _out in the open_. This, he decides, is probably not the best place for the future Margrave and one of the King’s close friends to be kissing this much in public. 

He draws back, delighting in Dedue chasing his lips, but Sylvain pushes forward to nuzzle his face in his neck before Dedue can catch his mouth again. He struggles to catch his breath as Dedue’s grip on his hips loosens and his thumbs rub soothing patterns as he pants alongside Sylvain, chest billowing with each gulped breath.

Sylvain pulls back, smoothing his hands down the front of Dedue’s shirt, pleased to see his lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark in the low setting sun.

“Hi,” he breathes.

Dedue’s lips quirk up in a small smile. “Hello, Sylvain.”

“Been a while, huh?”

“Oh, just a little,” Dedue states, and the quip has Sylvain collapsing back against him, muffling his laughter in his neck as he winds his arms around Dedue to hug him properly. Dedue hums, letting his arms curve around his waist, holding him close, his nose brushing against the curls that fall over Sylvain’s ear. It’s here that he murmurs, voice low and rumbling out, “I missed you.”

Sylvain grins, making sure he can feel it against his neck when he does. He follows his smile with a gentle nip against Dedue’s pulse, thrilled with how it jumps. “I missed you, too.”

“You did not say you were coming, in your last letter.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Sylvain says. He pulls back again so he can hold Dedue’s stare, running one of his hands back up to brush his thumb along his jaw. “Surprise.”

Dedue huffs a soft chuckle. “A welcomed surprise,” he says. 

“Better than ink-stained letters?” 

Dedue smiles again, that smile that has always stolen Sylvain’s breath, made him determined to do anything he could to make sure he saw it every day. The small curl of his lips, the crinkling edge of his eyes as he looks at Sylvain as if he hung the moon and stars, as if he was more than a Crest and soldier, more than the future Margrave—as if he was just _Sylvain_. Dedue leans down to press a chaste kiss to his lips, the corner of his mouth, the dusky red blush on his face doing nothing to stop Sylvain from falling harder and harder as he stands, still wrapped firmly in Dedue’s embrace.

“Far more preferable to ink smudges,” Dedue admits, voice low.

Sylvain beams, bright, happy, as if the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders. “Good,” he states, and he tugs Dedue down for another kiss. 

Dedue draws back quicker than he’d like, bringing his hand up to smooth his thumb along Sylvain’s lips. “We should take this elsewhere,” he says, the words sending a delighted shiver down Sylvain’s spine. “You’ve had a long journey.”

Sylvain nods, helpless to do anything but follow when Dedue releases him, taking his hand in one and letting Sylvain grab his horse’s reins in the other. He babbles as they walk, unable to stop himself from talking about anything and everything, updating Dedue on their friends and beyond Fhirdiad’s capital to what he had learned from Dimitri’s brief letters from their former professor turned archbishop.

Dedue leads him through the small town, the villagers all happily greeting Dedue, their mild suspicion of Sylvain gone as soon as they spot them together. Dedue’s got a small smile on his face with every person they pass, nodding his greetings to them as Sylvain chatters and gives the villagers small waves.

He’s led to a small cabin, a small garden resting within the low, wooden gate. Next to it is a smaller stable, where Sylvain spots the horse Dedue had always favoured in Fhirdiad, one that Sylvain himself had had to coerce and encourage Dedue to get to know. There’s enough room for Chastity as well, and Sylvain stops his slew of words just to comment on it before his mind immediately tells him that Dedue _must_ hear about Ingrid’s pegasus as he takes Chastity’s gear off and leaves her to munch on the feed Dedue gathers for her.

He carries his bags despite Dedue trying to take them as he’s led into the small cabin. There’s only two rooms by the looks of it, the large main room and what Sylvain assumes is a bathing room in the back corner. The bed sits across from it, neatly made and looking as soft as the down-bed he has back in the castle after a journey this long sleeping on bedrolls. 

He should be used to these conversations with Dedue, where Sylvain talks more than Dedue does, but now he’s hyper aware of every word spilling from his lips as he looks around and tells Dedue that his home is cozy and warm—something he had fully expected from Dedue. He chuckles nervously as soon as Dedue’s shut the door and he’s set his bags down.

“Sorry,” he manages, watching Dedue’s head tilt slightly at the apology. “I never know when to shut up, do I?”

Dedue’s face smooths out, understanding filling his gaze as he steps forward. His hand cups Sylvain’s jaw, thumb brushing the arc of his cheek as Sylvain stammers random syllables that could’ve passed for words if his brain didn’t stop functioning as soon as his eyes dropped to Dedue’s lips, to his small smile.

“I don’t mind.”

He follows his words with the press of his lips, and Sylvain falls against him, belief in his statement filling him more faithfully than anything he’s felt before.

**Author's Note:**

> Sylvain: at least i don't make out with the King in public. I just make out with Dedue in public.  
> Felix: I did not ask.
> 
> I wanted soft, post war Syldue, so I wrote soft, post war Syldue, complete with Sylvain's slight panic at feeling real emotions! 
> 
> [tweet tweet](https://twitter.com/wintersrose616)


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